I think I need adult supervision.

It seems as if the only thing I can count on, is the fact that I can't count on things to go as planned.  Flexibility is becoming my middle name.  As you have all heard (ad nauseum), a lot gets packed into my two "free" days a week.  This past weekend was no different - Saturday (as originally planned):  All laundry washed, hung out to dry; fast trip to feed mill to stock up 'cause prices are going through the roof; trip down to pick up the Guinea keets I finally located; oh-right, finish cleaning out the small coop for same; the regular chores; neighbor for dinner.

My partial list  (look familiar, Sylvie?)

Saturday (as actually occurred):  came home Friday evening to find Scrappy listless and limping slightly.  Saturday - called vet at 6A to plead for appointment.  Took Scrappy to vet to discover he had Lyme's Disease - now I am adding medication twice a day for 30 days to our schedule.  I did get the feed and I did do my regular chores.  And I did have my neighbor over for dinner.  And the only reason I did get all the laundry done, was that I woke up at 2:30A Saturday morning and couldn't go back to sleep.

Scrappy - giving us his 'pathetic' look.

Here is where the adult supervision comes in.

So, that left Sunday.  The plan?  Go north to the blueberry farm for my annual picking day, leaving the house early - to miss both the heat, the traffic and the crowds; visit parents; get gas (in Vermont, where it's over 15 cents a gallon cheaper); clean the house; process the blueberries; iron for the week.  Have all this done by 4:30P, so I could sit down with a glass of wine and watch my Netflix movie.

The reality:  I do not want to get out of bed at 4:30A, when dogs woke me; I poke around doing everything but getting ready for the day; go out to find that everything living needed water; water same; chores; load eggs for farmers market and cooler for blueberries (and my homegrown veggies for Mom) in car; realize I have to move 150# of feed out of car and into various bins; dose Scrappy and give them both guilt chewies; leave house almost an hour later than planned.  By the time I had dropped off the eggs and driven up to the blueberry farm (usually an hour's drive, when one is NOT behind every octogenarian for six states - all going where you're going, or so it seems), it was hot and there was a crowd.  Blech.  I usually - make that always - go picking with someone else.  Normally, that is Melanie, her daughter, and Marianne.  I couldn't go with Melanie and her daughter last weekend, and Marianne is up to her lovely elbows in family stuff, so that left moi.  I planned to pick my usual 10# of berries in an hour.

Two+ hours later, in the hot sun, I had picked 22# of blueberries.  There is something about meandering around in the rows of blueberries, listening to the birds and the annoying-but-necessary birds of prey recordings, that can just make you lose track of time.  Plus, it was a fascinating chance to look into human behavior.  This is also known as practicing nosey-ness.  Lots of families out picking blueberries - with a few, it was a bonafide fun outing for the whole family.  For most, the 'fun' lasted about 5 minutes and then the full-blown whining started.  And that was just the adults (kidding!)  At one point, I kept hearing a fellow yakking away, but I didn't hear his companion's response.  So I sidled down a few rows and -- yep -- there he was on his cell phone.  I looked at him in disbelief and said, loudly, "Oh, fercryinoutloud!  Is there no place on this planet that is sacred?!"  He gave me a frightened look and moved a half-acre down.  Fine with me.  Harumph.

Needless to say, by the time I dragged my soggy, overheated self back to my car and dragged my two large buckets up for weighing, visited with my parents (briefly) - my mother almost literally ran to get me a glass of iced tea - and went home, you better believe not much else happened.  No house cleaning was done.  No ironing was done.  No dinner was cooked.  No movie was viewed.  I did manage to foist off about a half-pound of berries on my mother and another 5# to Kay.  This morning, when I opened the fridge, there it sat.  A large, broken, blue plastic bucket, filled to the brim with blueberries.  Staring balefully at me.  Is there a support group for over-pickers?